Wednesdays
by darthsydious
Summary: Wednesdays at 221b. Established Sherlolly.


Mycroft did not care what schedule his brother's wife kept. Why should he? He knew she was home, and that's what mattered. If Molly was home, Sherlock probably was, as this week had been quite slow regarding the Yard and interesting cases. Anthea had mentioned Sherlock was tweaking his homeless network quite a bit lately. Mycroft hoped it was not because Sherlock was looking for a new pusher. He doubted it, ever since Molly had become a permanent fixture in Sherlock's life he had not displayed any signs of old habits or wanting the old habits.

Either way, Mycroft rung the bell at 221b, waiting patiently for the footsteps on the stairs, the inner door and finally the outer door to open.

"Mycroft!' Molly beamed at him, flour on her cheek, down her apron and up to her elbows. He looked at her appearance, clearly appalled that anyone could be so messy. "Come up," she motioned him inside. "Sorry, it's Wednesday."

"And in your day calendar that is the day you fall face first into a bag of flour?" Mycroft asked, entering 221b, placing his umbrella on the wired skeleton that doubled as a coat and hat rack. Sherlock was in his usual position on the couch, hands steepled under his chin.

"Don't be stupid, Mycroft. It's Molly's baking day," he answered. Mycroft seated himself in Sherlock's chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Checking up on me, brother dear?" the consulting detective asked.

"Can't I merely drop by for a friendly chat?"

"No."

"If you two aren't going to be civil then play a game," Molly said from the kitchen. Mycroft looked over to where she was working. Deft hands were braiding dough, laying it on seasoned stoneware and depositing it into the oven. She turned back to the table, taking the rolling pin she began on another ball of dough, humming to herself. He watched, fascinated at how quickly she turned out loaves. He noticed the new double oven that occupied the corner by the door. Apparently Sherlock had indulged his wife's penchant for baking.

"She bakes bread for the week," Sherlock said, knowing Mycroft was wondering what the hell Molly was making so much for. She didn't sell it, and she didn't work in a bakery. "She passes out some to my homeless network when she can." Ah. That explained why Sherlock was checking up on them so often.

"Here Sherlock," Molly called; she had pulled a loaf of white bread out of the oven, setting it on a rack. Taking a serrated knife, she cut into the loaf easily, taking a few hot slices, she quickly buttered it and handed it to her husband.

"No tea?" he asked, taking the plate. She gave him a look and he threw it right back at her. "Fine," he grumbled at got to his feet. Still holding onto the plate, he shuffled into the kitchen and took down the kettle.

"Mycroft, will you have a cup?" Molly asked.

"Oh…yes…if it isn't too much trouble." Mycroft was actually having trouble keeping the saliva in his mouth. 221b was saturated in the smell of fresh bread. He watched as she carefully rolled out scones, laying them on a tray and giving each one an egg wash and deposited the tray in the oven. She was taking down another bowl of dough, tugging the damp towel off.

"Do you want to help?" she asked, seeing the twinkle in Mycroft's eye. He declined, deciding rather to watch. Sherlock it seemed had the same idea. He loved to watch Molly in her element. Whether carving up a fresh corpse in the morgue or rolling out dough for sweet buns, she was in her comfort zone and worked best. Her hands flew over the rolling pin, taking a fistful of flour to spread over the table. Taking a knife she'd slash through the dough, rolling them easily into shapes. A sprinkle of currents, a quick egg wash and they'd be waiting to slide into the oven. Then the timer would ring and she'd be back at the second oven door, lifting out a loaf of good sourdough, or a french boule. For Sherlock, it was pure admiration and love that he watched his wife for a little while, happy that she was so pleased and comfortable, and that she too could get the kitchen as messy baking as he could during one of his experiments (of course flour doesn't eat the tile the same way that acid does). Even if his day was particularly boring or terrible, seeing Molly so pleased in their kitchen made him pause for a moment and be grateful she was there with him.

For Mycroft, it was a combination of things. He loved food. Much to his chagrin, and Sherlock's delight, Mycroft's weakness was sweets. And bread. And Molly was an expert on both. Indeed after their initial meeting (she called it kidnapping, he called it a consultation) she sent him a peace-offering of a ganache soaked cheesecake. If it hadn't been so bloody delicious, Mycroft would have tossed it in the garbage. Mycroft loved food. He loved how it looked, the appealing colors, the interesting flavors, the tang of a good cheese over a sweet fig, washed down with an excellent wine. He loved the sound a spoon made cracking the sugar glaze on a crème brûlée. He loved best of all, sweet buns, the sugar glaze and the texture of a fresh batch just out of the oven. He also liked the fact that it was one thing Molly was absolutely confident at. She was an expert at her job, of course she was, and she studied, went to college and graduated at the top of her class. Now she was one of the leading pathologists at St. Barts and sometimes gave guest lectures at Oxford. But she had to learn all of that. Baking came as naturally to Molly as deducing came to Mycroft and Sherlock. Nobody had to teach it to her, and she certainly never took a course. The little knowledge she was given came from her mother who worked in a chip shop. Molly picked up on that right away and baking seemed the next natural step. Mycroft could appreciate someone who excelled at something they loved, especially if it was baking, doubly so if it benefitted him.

So if Mycroft started popping around on Wednesday afternoons, Molly made no mention of it, she only handed him a fresh slice of bread and a cup of tea.


End file.
